Playing Tennis with Thomas
by happyyorkshirelass
Summary: So, with all the drama unfolding on Centre Court at Wimbledon '14, I thought it might be fun to have a tennis match with Tom Hiddleston


**Playing Tennis with Thomas**

'You ready?'

His blue eyes were sparkling, and yes, yes there _was_ a little bit of mischief lurking there.

No, I was not ready. Two hours ago I'd received a text from my friend Richard, who was 'snarled up in traffic on the A3 and had agreed to meet a friend for a game of tennis. Nothing serious. Just a friendly. Could I step in? Guilford Royal Tennis Club. 2:30pm. Court 2.'.

I'd texted back: 'OK, I'll dig out my tennis shoes.' (I then ran upstairs and spent a frantic hour hurling things out of the landing cupboard, trying to find my tennis stuff….)

No, I definitely wasn't ready.

He stood there, in a White Stripes Tour of 2007 t-shirt, navy shorts and a red baseball hat.

'Heads or Tails?' The 10p lay shining in his palm.

'Tails'.

He placed the coin on his thumb nail and flicked it… it spun through the air, glinting on the sunlight as it travelled back towards us. He caught it, looked at me and smiled before opening his hand to reveal…. Heads.

'I win,' he smiled. 'I'll serve'. He turned to walk towards the base line.

Right. Steady breaths. I walked back to the opposite side and got ready, resting on the balls of my feet, knees bent slightly, tennis racket clutched in my sweaty palm. I licked my lips.

He bounced the ball twice, swung his racket a few times. Then, catching the ball again, looked across at me.

'Are you sure you're ready?'

'Yes,' I lied.

'Here we go…'

And he reached up, throwing the ball high into the air and, as it fell, he brought his racket up in perfect timing and sliced the ball down the centre of the court.

It shot past my left ear with something approaching a sonic boom and bounced neatly just inside the line behind me. Ace.

'15 love….. love' he announced (with some satisfaction, it has to be said).

I smiled back at him. I see, it was going to be like that was it? A friendly tennis match they'd said, with no discrimination against or mention of my Yorkshire accent they'd said (they hadn't actually, but I thought I'd put that in).

Right then, Hiddleston.

He picked up another ball, bounced it a few times, spun his racket almost casually in his palm.

I settled down, straightened my cap, rocked on the balls of my feet, wiggled my knees and bottom a bit and bit my lip.

He bounced the ball and then caught it, threw it and brought his racket to bear.

The ball came zooming towards me, but I countered and ran up to the net and returned, it bounced over to his side and then, almost instantly it was back sailing towards me, I ran backwards as fast as I could, allowed it to bounce and then backhanded it across the net with all my strength (there was, I must admit, a bit of Sharapova grunt).

Hiddleston ran to meet it with grace and aplomb and, rather neatly, gently tapped the ball. It sailed just over the net, bounced about an inch in…. and though I ran towards it with desperation and a speed that even Mo Farah would be proud of… I failed to get there in time. The tennis ball bounced forlornly off the court and rolled to a stop by a lonely pinecone.

'30 love….. love' he announced.

I gritted my teeth and went to wait again…

I won't bore you with the details of that first set (he won 6 games to my one – and I think that one was him being gentlemanly) however, we stopped for a quick break and drink and I tried my best to be composed and not at all sweaty and heaving.

'It's a shame Richard couldn't make it,' I said whilst I tightened my shoe laces and wiped my hands on my towel.

'Oh, I don't know,' Tom replied, as he unscrewed a chilled bottle of Evian.

'I think you would have had a more enjoyable match playing against him than me.'

Tom shook his head, and swallowed. 'No, Richard can be very competitive sometimes.'

I smiled at him.

'What and you're not?'

'Oh, I am,' he looked at me, and I could see his eyes flare. Yes, I bet he was very competitive and determined when he wanted to be.

'This was supposed to be a friendly match, you know,' I said, rather bashfully.

'I know,' he said, smiled and raised his eyebrows mischievously, 'Time'.

During the second set, I managed to win four games to his six, which I was quietly pleased about (and I did, I have to confess, do one of those air punches, which made him laugh). At the point where I was a game up, we even had a volley for a minute or two, which ended as he gave a splendid backhanded stroke that sent the ball sailing and landing in the tiniest corner of the base line. An amazing stroke – and he was, I had to genuinely admit, a beautiful tennis player despite the fact that he was able to break my serve, repeatedly.

'Do you want another game?' he asked when we stopped again. The court was booked for another forty minutes.

'Er,' I replied, rather uncertainly. 'Do you?'

'Why not…. And then PIMMs I think, in the clubhouse'.

'That sounds grand,' I replied.

So we went again, and, yes, I got completely thrashed, but at least the score was more acceptable this time (6-1; 6-4; 6-2) and afterwards we zipped up our sports bags and sipped PIMMs and lemonade in the afternoon sun.


End file.
